" Maybe," Doctor MacDonald agreed, in a tone of friendly
"Listen," Mr. Munn reiterated, leaning, "let them nail
you, and there's men will take this place apart. Plenty of
them. Soldiers or no soldiers. No"—and he shook his
head—" they won't nail you. They'll be afraid."
"Maybe," Doctor MacDonald repeated cheerfully. He
moved the length of the cell, three paces, short paces for him,
and lifted his arms, slowly, almost luxuriously, above his
Mr. Munn sat down on the edge of the cot. He felt done
in. He felt like a man who, new to a high altitude, runs up
an easy slope and finds, suddenly, his knees water and his
head giddy with the empty air.
"Bilious/' Doctor MacDonald declared; "that's what it
does to me. My teeth feel green. Like moss on a rotten
shingle. Damned if they don't."
Mr. Munn did not answer, looking down at the stained
concrete of the floor. He had the impulse to He back on the
cot, to let himself go. If they got him, arrested him and
brought him here, he could just lie back and shut his eyes.
Then there wouldn't be any reason not to. He could do it.
"Well?" Doctor MacDonald was saying inquiringly. He
was standing in the middle of the cell, staring down at
Doctor MacDonald stood there, in his shirt-sleeves and with
his vest unbuttoned, tall even in his carpet slippers, the light
from the window falling directly on his unkempt, strong-
boned head. He stood with his weight off his heels, like a
boxer, or a man ready to go somewhere. The cuffs of the
shirt he wore were fresh and stiff. Mr. Munn looked at them.
Cordelia brought him a clean shirt every morning, he knew.
She wrapped the shirt up in a piece of paper, every morning,
and left the hotel, and walked down the street, not looking at
anybody, and crossed the square and came here. She would
stand in the cell and hold one of Doctor MacDonald's hands
with both of hers.